


Let Me Help

by TheAsexualofSpades



Series: Quarantine Drabbles [131]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Android Gavin Reed, Android Hank Anderson, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Human Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Human Upgraded Connor | RK900, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Panic Attacks, Protective Hank Anderson, RK900 is named Nines, reverse au, rk900 is named Richard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:27:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25668193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAsexualofSpades/pseuds/TheAsexualofSpades
Summary: “Come on you bastard,” Connor hisses through his teeth, storming outside and rooting for the pack of cigarettes tucked into his jacket, “don’t do this here.”His brain, of course, very very helpfully, in insisting that he do this here. Right now, in fact. Yes, this is absolutely the perfect time to have a panic attack and no, it will not be taking constructive criticism.Which is really fucking stupid if you ask Connor.
Relationships: Amanda & Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Connor & Upgraded Connor | RK900, Hank Anderson & Connor
Series: Quarantine Drabbles [131]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1677655
Comments: 12
Kudos: 192





	Let Me Help

**Author's Note:**

> Can't believe I haven't done a reverse au yet but hey it's about time

Fandom: DBH

Prompt: “Don’t do this here.”

* * *

“Come on you bastard,” Connor hisses through his teeth, storming outside and rooting for the pack of cigarettes tucked into his jacket, “don’t do this here.”

His brain, of course, very _very_ helpfully, in insisting that hedo this here. Right now, in fact. Yes, this is absolutely the perfect time to have a panic attack and no, it will not be taking constructive criticism.

Which is really fucking stupid if you ask Connor.

The cold air bites into his skin through his pathetically thin jacket, making him curse and fumble with the cigarette pack. He hasn’t been outside for more than like, two fucking minutes, that’s nowhere _near_ enough time for his hands to decide they don’t wanna work. And frankly, when his knees start knocking together and he has to lean against the wall for support, really, that’s just the fucking icing on the cake, now, isn’t it?

It’s stupid. It’s so stupid that he’s having a _panic attack_ right now.

Nothing’s even fucking happened today, he doesn’t get it.

Richard’s not here, no, he and that fucking plastic creep, GV-something, Connor wasn’t paying attention—no, that’s not true, it’s GV200, because Connor’s brain is _really_ determined to spite him right now—are off being _actual_ cops, doing _actual_ work, and not being sad, pathetic, and fragile outside a fucking office building.

His own piece of plastic—and Connor really hates that he’s starting to think of it as _his,_ this case has dragged on too fucking long—is off doing god knows what. It hadn’t even had the decency to let him finish his lunch.

_“Just got a tip. Suspected deviant activity at an office not far from here.” The HK800 tilts his head down at Connor’s burger and back up to him. “I’ll let you finish your meal. I’ll be in the car if you need me.”_

_Connor tries not to think about how comforting that last sentence actually is as he takes another bite._

Alright, _fine._ But in his defense, you know how fucking hard it is to do something an android doesn’t want you to do while it’s just _there,_ lurking the background, waiting for you to be done? Yeah, Connor hates it, which is why he just gave in to the damn thing a few moments later. It wasn’t like he wasn’t used to going without food.

The crime scene wasn’t even really a crime scene. Just a worried secretary who had been jammering on to Chris when they came in, insisting he saw something, and a bemused janitor who raised his eyebrows super high when the android walked in.

Connor knows what it probably was but he doesn’t wanna think about it.

Amanda had called. Told him to report.

He doesn’t have any firm feelings towards his Captain. Really, he doesn’t. She’s a captain, what the fuck else is he supposed to say? She’s good at her job? She is. She’s a hardass? Hell to the fuck yeah. Did she stick him with this piece of plastic? Connor hates every minute of it.

It’s the only fucking option, though, of what might’ve triggered this absolutely fucking _useless_ panic attack. Which Connor’s not having. Nope. Absolutely not.

He’s not having this panic attack now, thank you very much. He is in _public_ and he has things to do and this panic attack can wait until he is at home and free and has his tiny fluffy white therapist to help him out, thank you very much.

_What the fuck are the breathing exercises? Do those even fucking work?_

Connor throws his head back against the wall. He misjudges how far away it is. He winces when his head _slams_ into the brick much harder than he intended. Eh.

He’s not going to slide down the wall. Making himself smaller only makes it worse. She thinks he’s hiding, trying to—

Nope. Nope, not doing that either.

“She’s dead,” Connor hisses, his breath forming wispy white clouds in the relentless cold, “she’s fucking dead.”

What the _fuck_ is going on, Connor would like to know, please.

He’d been doing _good_ too. Well, he’s cut back on some stuff. He doesn’t drink as much as he used to. Not because some piece of plastic told him it was bad for his health but because it made him a better worker. Not to keep up with the android or anything, just to get this case done as soon as possible so the android could leave.

Not because it’s the closest thing Connor’s ever had to a father figure but—

Connor curses. When did he put the cigarette pack away? He wants a fucking smoke, thank you, can his fingers _finally_ get with the damn program?

The flimsy-ass cardboard practically folds under his fingers that _still won’t respond,_ he’s only been out here for like two minutes, there’s no reason for them to be this cold. He shouldn’t be shaking this much, what’s happening?

Well, he should’ve packed a fucking thicker jacket. Not because the android told him what the weather was gonna be but because now apparently the cold has decided to reach _into_ his chest and squeeze around his heart.

He hasn’t been this cold since—

_Brain, would you knock it the fuck off? Please?_

His fingers won’t fucking cooperate _and he just wants a fucking cigarette._

“Detective?”

Connor’s head whips around. The HK800 is standing there like it’s fucking meant to be, looking at him with such a perfectly crafted expression of artificial concern that it freaks him out.

“What the hell do you want,” Connor wants to snarl. He wants to tell it to get lost, to leave him the fuck alone, to let him _not_ have this panic attack right now.

But he can’t.

The words are fucking stuck in his throat and he doesn’t have the brainpower to spare to figure out why the fuck he can’t speak. All he can do is stare. Stare at the HK800.

“You’ve been outside for 47 minutes,” the HK800 says softly.

_What? No, the fuck he hasn’t. He came out here two minutes ago and his fingers are—he—_

It’s cold. It’s so cold. His jacket isn’t thick enough and he should’ve brought a thicker jacket, he should’ve listened to Nines when he tugged on his sleeve when she told them to wait outside, but he’d been stubborn and only insisted his little brother grab one—

_Stop it. Stop it now._

“Connor?”

_Don’t fucking use my name,_ he wants to snap.

_What the hell do you want,_ he wants to ask.

_Don’t leave me alone,_ he wants to plead.

“My scans have detected that you are in distress,” and why the _fuck_ that actually sounds halfway to comforting in the android’s voice Connor can’t figure out, “let me help.”

Help? Help with what? Connor’s fine. Everything is so fine right now. Everything is so fine and good in the way that it’s happening.

Connor really just needs a _fucking_ smoke.

The sight of the HK800’s hand reaching for him is enough to send him shaking, back against the wall. He’s not really how that’s different from the shaking he’s already doing with his back against the wall but whatever it is, the android sees it.

“You said you wanted a smoke, right?”

Did Connor say that out loud?

“Let me help you.”

Connor doesn’t want to. He doesn’t need a plastic doing things for him. But his hands are numb now. They’re not even shaking. The android’s touch _burns_ where their fingers just brush.

The HK800 takes the pack of cigarettes and takes one out, holding it out for Connor to take. His fingers are so fucking numb he can’t grip it. They keep sliding off. He bites back a frustrated whine.

He’s not gonna cry out here, not in front of an android, not in front of _anybody_ just because he’s too cold to hold a fucking cigarette.

It’s cold.

“Detective,” the android says, “will you come inside?”

What? No. No smoking inside.

“Your body temperature is getting worse the longer you stay,” the HK800 says softly, “you can’t stay out here much longer.”

But that means he has to move. She doesn’t like it when he moves too much.

“Let me help you,” the android says quietly, holding out his hand. Palm up. Safe. She always held her palm up when it was over. And he was supposed to take it.

The android must’ve fucking warmed his skin because it’s the warmest thing Connor’s felt in ages. And then it starts leaving, backing away toward the entrance. Connor follows dumbly.

The doors _whoosh_ shut and it’s no longer biting his skin through his jacket. Then why is he still shaking?

“Detective,” the android murmurs, and why _the fuck_ is this so comforting, “may I touch your face, please?”

What? Why does he want that? Why does _Connor_ want that?

Hands. Hands on his skin. Better him than Nines.

“Thank you,” the android says, reaching a hand up and—

—oh. Oh, oh, that feels…

The android holds his hand with a steady reassuring grip and uses his other hand to carefully wipe Connor’s tears away.

“Wh-what the fuck is _happening?”_

“You’re having a panic attack, Detective,” the android murmurs, “and I need you to help me calm you down.”

Connor shakes his head minutely. “Not. Not having a panic attack. Hm-mm.”

“I’m afraid you are,” Hank says—that’s right, the plastic’s name is Hank— “my scans indicate that you are. It’s okay.”

“But—but nothing happened,” Connor bites out, “how—how’m I—“

“Contrary to popular belief,” Hank murmurs, “most panic attacks can happen with no obvious trigger. Some have no triggers at all. They are spontaneous.”

…oh.

Connor’s having a fucking panic attack.

“I’ve got you, Detective,” Hank soothes, “you’re okay. You’re safe.”

_Connor’s having a fucking panic attack._

“Detective, I need you to focus on me.” Hank’s face swims in front of Connor until he can’t see the LED anymore. He doesn’t care. “Can you take a deep breath?”

It’s by far the stupidest panic attack Connor’s ever had. In the foyer of a perfectly nice office building, having his tears wiped away by an android.

And yet, as he walks through breathing exercises that actually seem to help for once, he thinks this one might not be so bad.

“You’re doing really well, Detective. Can you speak? If not, that’s okay.”

Connor unhinges his jaw—when did he clench it so tight? Nines keeps telling him that’s bad for him—and grits out a response.

“Good. Can you name five things you can see for me?”

“Door. You. Plant. Secretary. Chris.”

“Good. What about four things you can touch?”

Connor’s fingers twitch. They’re still cold. “Pants. Shirt. Jacket. Cigs pack.”

“Good, Detective, you’re doing very well. Can you name three things you can hear?”

“You.”

“Good, Detective, you can keep listening to me. Two more things?”

“Uh, the door. Someone’s phone is ringing.”

“Two things you can smell?”

“Smoke. And, um…pretty sure I still smell like the burger stand.”

“You never did finish your lunch,” Hank murmurs softly, reaching to wipe another tear away, “we will get you some food after. What about something you can taste?”

Connor licks his lips. “Salt. From the stupid fucking tears.”

“Your tears aren’t stupid,” Hank says, “you’re overwhelmed. Crying is the body’s natural response to any emotional excess. Your tears are doing exactly what they’re supposed to do. And so are you. You did very well, Detective, good job.”

And when Connor can move again, when the android removes his jacket and drapes it over him like it’s nothing, when he steers them to a secluded corner of the office food court and sets a snack in front of him, Connor wonders if that’s what it’s like to have a decent parent.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Come yell at me on tumblr while we're all in quarantine. 
> 
> https://a-small-batch-of-dragons.tumblr.com/


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